


senseless needs

by lordbhreanna



Series: like oil and water [3]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, He doesn't like it, Love/Hate, Nicholai experiences A Feeling, Pining, Resident Evil 3 Remake inspired, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22335832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordbhreanna/pseuds/lordbhreanna
Summary: “It was… the Russian…” he hisses, his eyes going blank as the words come out of his mouth. “Went to… data room… Hurry.”Mueller grips the lanyard string around his neck and shakes it in front of her. She takes it, the doctor’s words hammering her brain and the suspicion growing like an infection spreading throughout her body.Of all the Russian bastards out there, it had to be him, hadn’t it?Jill stares at the lifeless body, and her own breathing falters.-Jill and Chris infiltrate one of Umbrella's abandoned facilities in search of a doctor. Instead, she finds Nicholai—ready to destroy what she came for.
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Jill Valentine
Series: like oil and water [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599376
Comments: 37
Kudos: 61





	senseless needs

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Serena for her beta-reading (and support) <3
> 
> As you may have noticed, I created a series for these oneshots named _like oil and water_ , so there's more fic coming up. I guess they could be read as standalone pieces, but I highly recommend checking them all to get a sense of how their relationship has evolved in this universe.
> 
> I also updated the two previous fics to use Capcom's official localisation, now they've said it's Nicholai Ginovaef and not Nikolai Zinoviev, to avoid any confusion.

Her footsteps echo in the hallway, with a few stuttering lamps barely offering any light. Flashlight in hand, Jill strengthens the grip on her handgun, checking with inquisitive eyes every nook and cranny. The laboratory doesn’t look run down, although there are clear signs of abandonment. No one has taken care of this place in a long time; Jill assumes in months, a year at least. 

The white walls are stainless clean, the floor is covered in a thin layer of dust. Umbrella must have closed it in a hurry.

“Are we sure the doctor is still here?” Chris’ voice comes into her ear through the comm.

“Well, the intel placed him in this facility. He might’ve been hiding all this time.”

Jill hopes that’s the case, but she has a hunch there is more going on here. After all, she had gotten the information from that CD _he_ had provided. An advance for a deal she never accepted, in the end. For all Jill knows, he could have actually fooled her. The fact that they’re not here in any official capacity doesn’t help alleviate her concerns—she wants to do things the right way. However, since the demise of Raccoon City, the road has been littered with obstacles. Not even the proof Chris gathered in Europe helped in the slightest to present a solid case against Umbrella. The company was being thoroughly investigated by the FBI, sure, but Umbrella’s lawyers were ruthless. By using every legal loop in the book, all pieces of evidence they had handed in were regarded as circumstantial or unusable in a court of justice. It hadn’t mattered that the contents of said evidence proved Umbrella’s experiments, and their consequences. Umbrella is their Goliath, but in this story he looks more and more unbeatable. Jill suspects why.

No one wants to think about Raccoon City. No one wants the truth.

It makes her boil with rage, realising how rotten the system could be at its core. It also makes her resolve stronger—which is why Chris and Jill had decided to venture into an unsuspecting building in the outskirts of Chicago. Umbrella’s corporate trademarks are still present. There are discarded papers on desks bearing the white and red logo. She thinks about the display board hanging over the front door they had passed before breaking into through a window: a happy white middle class family, flashing their teeth in a fabricated smile, next to the company slogan.

_Making life better._

God, she wants to bring them down so bad. Between the two of them, Chris is the one prone to outbursts when he can’t take it any longer. Jill tries to be more level-headed, to bring some perspective into the fight. Rebecca is so young, and Barry has a family to worry about on top of all this. However, sometimes the hate threatens to blind her just as much. It gets too personal, which leads to losing sight of what really matters.

A distant noise alerts her, and Jill turns on her heels quickly, pointing the flashlight to the source of the sound.

“I’ve heard something, gonna check it now,” she whispers to the comm.

“Copy that,” Chris replies, and she hears the rustle of papers from his side.

Hopefully, he has found something of value in the first floor offices. Jill shakes her head and focuses on her goal, approaching the right side of the hallway with cautious steps. With her back to the wall, her arm stretches out to reach for the doorknob. It creaks lightly as she turns it, echoing around the whole corridor. A peek inside reveals what she assumes it’s a private office. The lights are on, though the flickering makes it difficult to focus. There are papers scattered around the floor, bookshelves filled up to the brim, an elegant desk at the back of the room. 

Then Jill sees it, the shape of a human being slumping behind the desk.

She turns off the flashlight, putting it back inside her jacket, and moves cautiously towards the body. Her gun remains pointed—she has seen her fair share of undead corpses to be wary about. Although there are no signs of an outbreak in the building, she keeps her guard up.

“Urgh…” the man gurgles, blood spitting out his mouth.

Jill jumps to his side and kneels down, placing a hand on the man’s hunched shoulder. There’s blood all around his lips, red threads dripping down his throat. He heaves, with ugly fits of cough hindering his breathing. From what she can gather, he doesn’t have much longer. As she checks the man’s wound on the chest, the linen shirt soaked in crimson, Jill finds an ID card hanging from his neck. 

Dr Greg Mueller. Her eyes widen in surprise—she has just hit the jackpot.

“Sir, are you Dr Mueller? Can you talk?” Jill asks, trying to calm the man down. 

Their intel addresses him personally as the director of the whole facility. Beyond the domestic drugs and medicines, the research here focused not on developing BOWs as the NEST lab in Raccoon City. In Chicago, they looked for countermeasures. Vaccines prototypes, probably with the intention of selling them along with the viruses themselves. Jill knew all too well that curing the infection was possible, which had turned this investigation into a priority for their small task force. 

And this man here could hold all the answers. Jill knows she needs to take him alive and make him talk. When Jill finds the wound, her fingertips trace the shape of a bullethole.

It’s fresh.

“The…” she hears Mueller mumble, more blood coming out of his mouth.

“Please, stay calm. I’m going to treat that wound, doctor,” Jill replies, rummaging through the side pack attached to her belt. 

The man’s hand catches her wrist unexpectedly, and Jill feels her heart jumping out of her for a second. 

“It was… the Russian…” he hisses, his eyes going blank as the words come out of his mouth. “Went to… data room… Hurry.”

Mueller grips the lanyard string around his neck and shakes it in front of her. She takes it, the doctor’s words hammering her brain and the suspicion growing like an infection spreading throughout her body.

Of all the Russian bastards out there, it had to be him, hadn’t it?

Jill stares at the lifeless body, and her own breathing falters.

-

Jill looks at the sliding door up and down, her brow wrinkled. The card reader on its left shines in green, which means it has power and is functional. He must have used it with another stolen ID card, perhaps. Taking a last side glance at the doctor’s dead body, Jill inserts the card and the terminal beeps approvingly, followed by the sound of locks opening.

“I’m going to follow a lead, Chris,” she informs, pressing her comm earpiece.

“Roger that,” he answers immediately, the mic crackling. “Let’s regroup, I’ll meet you upstairs.”

“No. There’s no time,” Jill blurts almost in a panic.

What she has told Chris about her source is vague, enough to claim she hasn’t lied to him face to face—which she hasn’t, and she’s not about to start now if there’s a way to avoid it. She made up a story about a journalist she met in Raccoon City that left town before the outbreak (which is true, except for the bit about the man leaving in time). Chris is one of the few friends she has left, who she trusts unconditionally. She’d rather not soil it. Despite that, Jill can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to address the matter of Nicholai Ginovaef with him. 

Fearing who she might find on the other side, Jill knows she needs to do this alone. 

“What? Jill, what’s going on?” Chris snaps, clearly puzzled at her behaviour. 

“Trust me, I’ll be done in a moment.”

Jill turns off the comm, as much as it pains her. When she crosses the door, it hisses behind her as the panel sweeps closed. Putting the ID card safely into her pocket, she poises her handgun ready and starts to walk along the small corridor that connects the office to the data room the doctor mentioned.

At least it’s well illuminated, she thinks. Her eyes travel around the perfect clean white surface of the walls. A couple pot plants decorate the place, but beyond that it’s eerie in its pure sanitized appearance. Jill squints her eyes, watching the data room door getting closer at the end.

She draws a deep breath, her nostrils flare open, her throat tightens, her stomach churns. For a second, she considers to run back to the office and avoid the confrontation. Despite the doubts shrouding her resolve, Jill takes the few steps that separate her from her goal.

When the door opens, sliding to her left, she sees the silhouette of his shoulders as clear as day under the fluorescent tubes’ pale light. His head perks up a bit without looking back. He knows someone’s there. The bastard probably knows it’s her.

Lifting her Beretta up, Jill takes aim and talks first.

-

“Nicholai.”

At the sound of her voice, Nicholai turns on his heels slowly. There’s the beginning of a smirk at the tip of his lips, although he seems to be equally bothered by her presence. 

Jill takes a quick look around, watching his movements. She notices the explosives rigged around the room, which isn’t particularly large—just rows of shelves and file cabinets, with several desks and computers. Somewhere inside these folders and drawers, there could be the hope of a vaccine.

Which must be why he’s here in the first place, she ponders. To destroy it all. 

“What a surprise, Miss Valentine,” he sputters, striding towards her with calculated steps. She draws back, gun still pointed at him, one foot outside the room. “If you’re here, it means you made good use of my little gift.”

“I saw your handiwork back there with the doctor,” Jill informs, frowning. “What are you doing here?”

He fidgets with something between his fingers. A small device with a red button. Shit, Jill thinks. A detonator.

“My job, as always.”

“You’re still working for Umbrella?” Jill scoffs.

“They’re still paying up,” he replies, unconcerned. “Why? Have you reconsidered my business proposition?” He’s glowering at her, even if his mouth is almost curled up in an amused grin.

Jill is clasping her fingers so tightly around the grip, her knuckles are going white. Swallowing hard, she decides to approach this in the most calm and collected way possible—even if she’d like nothing more than to punch him and break his nose in the process. But if she isn’t careful, he could blow everything up, including any hope of developing a functional vaccine for the virus.

“Nicholai, listen to me. This data could save millions of lives, it’s too important. You can’t destroy it.”

He twirls the detonator, passing it from one hand to the other playfully. Chin slightly raised, Nicholai takes a step closer to the door.

“My client wants this evidence gone. I do as they say. I get paid. I don’t give a fuck about the rest,” he states with indifference, a slight shrug from his shoulders.

Her jaw clenches from pure, raw anger. 

“Goddammit!” she yells in frustration. “What are you? Another one of Umbrella’s mindless monsters?”

He’s standing in front of her, his vest brushing the handgun’s muzzle. Jill’s stance falters while every vein in her neck throbs. Nicholai leans his head down, as if he’s going to whisper. A remorseless grin stretches out across his lips when he speaks, eyebrows raised.

“If it makes me rich…” 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Still, Jill can’t believe how much of a greedy piece of shit Nicholai can be—but he seems intent on proving it to her over and over. 

“You’re a son of…”

“I’d love to stay and listen to your insults, but I don’t have much time.” His face turns into a stern expression, then it happens. He pushes down the red button, activating the detonator. “And you don’t either.”

The bombs around the room start beeping. Jill sees with a terrified look the countdown on each explosive: two minutes. Nicholai chuckles as he pushes her aside and walks out of the room. She freezes on the spot, certain of what she should do. Go after Nicholai and—arrest him? Rip that smug smile off from his face? That will not achieve anything, except getting some sort of payback. She shakes her head, a storm brewing inside her mind. 

Her impulsive streak overrides her common sense, and Jill rushes towards the deep end of the room without thinking through, without caring one bit that she’s running to an almost certain death. The only sound she hears is the clock ticking down, echoing in her ears. In the end, all she wants is to fight. She doesn’t consider if she’d die in a vain attempt, because all that matters in that moment is not giving up at any cost. 

Before she can even start ransacking the room in her mad attempt, a pair of arms wrap around her waist and hoist her up. 

“ _Der’mo_!” Jill hears him shout behind her, her back pressed against his chest. “Are you crazy, woman?!”

Jill wrestles to get out of his hold, growling, purely fueled by a combination of desperation and fury. Her elbows drill between his ribs, while her legs kick the air incessantly, her body wriggling between his strong arms. 

Then a high-pitched noise pierces her eardrums, numbing all her senses as the ringing in her head deafens everything else. As the explosion pushes them out of the room with colossal force, their entangled bodies hit the floor and roll up to the opposite end of the corridor. She can’t see anything, while a heavy weight keeps her pressed against the cold tiles. Warm, massive hands cup her head, with calloused fingertips. They brush her scalp, thumbs pressed against each side of her face. The gesture is intimate even with the leather gloves; and it’s familiar. She knows those hands very well—she has felt their coarseness all over her skin, gripping at her body. But Jill has never felt them like this, as if they’re sheltering her from danger. The fire still burns in her cheeks, but she knows she’s not injured.

When she opens an eye tentatively, she discovers the same can’t be said about Nicholai.

Lying on top of her, his arms still enfolding her protectively, Jill notices his face is covered in soot and smudges of blood; there are bright red patches of skin on his face and arms, burnt to the contact with the flares produced by the explosion. His eyes remain tightly shut, face contorted in a painful grimace. The bulk of his body has her trapped under him, pinned down without chance of breaking free. Nicholai doesn’t move an inch, but his chest presses against hers, struggling to breathe as much as her.

Jill gasps for air, which turns into a violent cough. Her eyes prickle with tears. The smell of scorched metal and carbonized cellulose drowns her.

“You’re nothing but fucking trouble,” he grunts; his voice sounds drier than ever. 

He lets go of her, rolling to the side, and Jill feels like a rock has been lifted from her lungs. She breathes out, blinking to clean up his view. Then she turns her face to her left, throwing him a baffled look. Jill knows what has happened. Somehow, Nicholai has shielded her from the explosion, which explains his state. It doesn’t explain why he’d do such a thing, as it’s usually the case with him—like there’s a missing piece in the way he acts around her. Jill isn’t sure if she doesn’t understand it, or if she doesn’t want to.

“Then why bother stopping me?” she bites back out loud, and her words come out as a whisper.

Nicholai props himself up with one arm, still catching his breath. His eyes dart to hers, piercing Jill with an inexplicable feeling.

“You’d be dead!” he rebukes heatedly, and Jill can’t remember any other time he has sounded so infuriated, so full of exasperation. 

You’d be dead, she repeats in her thoughts. A knot in her throat threatens to leave her breathless again, except this time the cause would be quite different. It’s him who always succeeds in leaving her confused and speechless, apparently.

_Why do you care?_

The question doesn’t come out of her mouth yet, but she sees the answer spelled out in Nicholai’s expression as he gazes at her with rawness, as the sudden realisation dawns upon him.

_Because he actually cares._

Jill’s mouth dries up. Neither say anything.

-

After unsuccessfully attempting to stand up, Nicholai plops down with his back against the wall. He leaves a trail of black dirt in the previously spotless surface. The thin skin of his neck is slightly charred, peeling off already.

Jill feels like throwing up at that moment, but instead crawls to his side slowly and starts rummaging through her sidepack.

“You can have it,” she tells him, tossing the first aid kit she brought to his lap. “And we’re even.”

He glances down at the metallic box with disinterest, then looks up. His eyes meet hers again.

“Are you going to arrest me now, Miss Valentine?”

Jill has never heard defeat in his tone, so it’s difficult to recognise it as such. There are traces of it in the way he asks the question. She decides to ignore them.

“I’m not a cop anymore. But I’m not letting you get away with this, not after what you’ve done here.”

Nicholai chuckles in reply, throwing his head back.

“So you’re going to kill me?” he asks out loud, gaze fixed on her. 

Jill shivers, clenching her fists. She knows why he has made the question—because he’s certain she won’t do it, just as she didn’t kill him in cold blood after Raccoon City. Because Nicholai knows she’s still bound by her sense of justice, and he’s playing with her because of it. Taunting her. That’s not what surprises Jill, though. It’s the thought that maybe he wants her to do it. His eyes are daring her to shoot the handgun and put and end to it all.

She doesn’t offer any response, fear and doubt creeping under her skin, and he’s the one to cut the tension.

“Let me suggest an arrangement, then,” he sighs, followed by a hoarse cough. “I hear your case is not doing great. I keep working for Umbrella. I spy for you.”

Jill frowns, lips pressed together. “We already had this conversation months ago. Still not interested.”

“I’d lower my rate, if that helps.”

Her snort resonates around the empty hallway. Of course this selfish bastard demands payment, as if he still has the upper hand in all this. It doesn’t mean she feels like she has succeeded in her purpose (the maybe-vaccine doesn’t exist anymore, so the mission has been a failure), but Nicholai has the annoying talent of appearing too confident in any given situation. Especially when it looks like he’s begging for scraps.

“I don’t think you should be worrying about your retirement plan right now,” she advises, rolling her eyes.

Nicholai grimaces when he tries to move, shifting his body to a more comfortable position. The back of his head hits the wall once more, and she watches him blowing out a deep, tired breath. Then he gulps. Jill needs to refocus, because this is definitely not the time to fixate on the hard lines of his jawline covered in greyish stubble, or the curve of his Adam’s apple as it goes up and down.

“One dollar a month,” Nicholai adds finally. “You get all the dirty secrets Umbrella is hiding, even their lawyers.”

Jill wonders why she hasn’t simply left already. The information she has come for has vanished, thanks to him—yet she sits there, beside him, listening to all the stupid bullshit he’s feeding her. Because there’s no way he’s being serious about it. 

“That’s a good one. So generous all of a sudden,” she mocks, readying herself to get the hell out of this place.

“I’m not.” 

Her legs stop dead before she gets up, a different kind of coldness spreading around every inch of her body. She skips a breath, lips slightly parted, holding his gaze for what feels like an eternity. 

Words seem limiting now, and she’s not sure she wants to voice out her thoughts—not hers, actually. Nicholai’s intensely staring at her with misery and a glimpse of something more. That same thing she has witnessed before. In the safehouse, in her apartment. A senseless need, like a sickness that has possessed him. 

(Both, she should say.)

It’s her turn to have a moment of sudden realisation. His offer is rooted in greed—but it’s not about the money. 

A shout coming from outside disrupts her chain of thoughts.

“Jill! Answer me, Jill!” It’s Chris, and all of a sudden Jill has to get out of the corridor, which seems to be narrowing with every blink.

Her eyes go from the door to Nicholai, until she makes a choice without considering all the implications. Those are the only kind of decisions she seems to take around him.

“Deal.”

Strangely, he doesn’t smirk or gloat. Nicholai simply clenches his jaw tightly, still in pain, and points to the door with his head. 

“Go. I’ll wait until you’ve left,” he rushes her, waving his hand.

Jill activates the comm, eyes still fixed on Nicholai.

“Chris? I’m fine, don’t worry. I must have lost my signal here.”

“Where are you?” he replies quickly, with relief. “I heard an explosion and…”

“Yeah, let’s say our intel was right but the vaccine is gone,” Jill sighs into the comm. “Meet me on the fifth floor’s corridor. I’ll… explain.”

After Chris agrees, Jill turns off the comm once again. Her glare is still settled on Nicholai. She observes his chest and shoulders rising up and down as he struggles to catch his breath.

For the briefest glimpse of a moment, Jill considers what it would feel like to just kill him; or what it would feel like to kiss him right now. Both thoughts inhabit her consciousness, as if they’re pulling a string in opposite directions. The string doesn’t break, the tugging war never ends and she keeps staring at Nicholai without making her mind.

When the door sweeps open and she enters the doctor’s office, Jill wishes she could simply hate him for having destroyed the data. That would make everything easier—except nothing involving Nicholai Ginovaef is easy, and she has a feeling this is merely the start. With a tired groan and an increasing headache, Jill leaves the office, unable to shake him off her thoughts completely. 

The memory of him lingers at the back of her mind, as if branded with fire-heated iron.

**Author's Note:**

> [Dr Greg Mueller is an actual character from Resident Evil canon, although I changed his role considerably.](https://residentevil.fandom.com/wiki/Greg_Mueller)
> 
> [But he was killed by Nicholai in canon too!](https://youtu.be/fTFPElWPYmU)
> 
> The whole premise of this oneshot was to have the "You're a monster" moment (which I'm a sucker of), as well as giving them a lasting excuse to keep contact in the future.


End file.
